Gradation
by syndomatic
Summary: She hated to wonder; it gave her something to feel sorry for. — Shizuka


**A/N: **um.

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><p><em>01. wash—<em>

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><p>The furniture that adorn her bedroom are arranged just the way her mother likes them: tidily, precisely, with no object misplaced or out of order. The walls and floor tiles are always pristine, and her reflection shines in the translucent glass of the window beyond her organized desk, covered up by pallid curtains that still manage to smell of summer no matter how cold the weather is outside.<p>

Once, just as she is going downstairs for breakfast, one hand already holding onto the strap of her heavy backpack, Shizuka looks back at it briefly before she closes the door. Her room is all stillness and silence, the warm sunlight barely filtering through the half-shut curtains, and there's something unsettling in the sight of it, something she can't quite place — like the room isn't really hers to own.

Shizuka stands unmoving in the doorway with her hand on the doorknob for a second too long, maybe two; it's only the call of her mother from the dining room that snaps her away from her thoughts, away from the unfamiliarity of her own bedroom — she takes the opportunity to walk away quickly, leaving hurriedly with the door still ajar, swallowing back the unease that threaten to rise.

.

.

The rest of the house is just as spotless, oftentimes even more so; Shizuka believes that it runs in the family, the obsessive compulsion to keep things clean, because she's never once come home to find a messy room, or dust starting to cake up at a forgotten corner: her mother keeps everything in line well.

Still, she keeps expecting her to slip up, just once, a vague hope for something different without really knowing why — but her mother is a very cautious woman, her observation skills well-honed from years of practice; and as her daughter, Shizuka wonders why she should expect anything less from her.

.

.

Later on, her parents leave her alone at home for the weekend — her father going away on a business trip to another prefecture, her mother visiting an old acquaintance from high school. "You're mature enough to be trusted," they say curtly, placing the keys on the living room table, and Shizuka feels elated as she watches the car drive off into the darkness, waving them goodbye.

But in the end, after the variety shows on television prove boring, she finds herself picking up the broom inside the closet as if instinctively. She end up spending nearly the rest of the night trying to achieve a higher sense of aesthetics, smudging off any irregularities in the house — and when she's submerged in the bathtub, the feeling of loneliness slowly beginning to sink in along the warmth, Shizuka finally feels as though she understands.

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><p><em>02. honor—<em>

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><p>Shizuka comes from an honorable family, which means that she grows up mostly wondering what it's like to peer beyond the glossy covers of the silly, girly magazines that her friends keep reading during recess, or whatever it is that they're giggling secretively about after school hours, or if she's old enough to really divulge herself into the alluring world of romance.<p>

_So easy to write banal stories about, so difficult to truly find_, her mother had said the first time she brought it up, her tone of voice wistful, like she's about to warn her of something. Shizuka had been perceptive, quick to conclude of her mother's unsaid disapproval of the idea, and she is a good daughter — so most of the time, she doesn't even think about it.

She thinks she rather would not, anyway, at least not seriously; but still, sometimes, in her weaker moments, she indulges herself in thick books with pink covers, old stories about brave knights and longing princesses, always deciding in the end that she is content enough in simply reading about love instead of actually experiencing it. Shizuka remembers her mother's words, ringing gently in the back of her head: _love is not innocent, Shizuka — remember that._

_Yes_, she replies silently, closing the book in her hand.

.

.

Dekisugi comes from an honorable family, too; this on its own doesn't surprise her in the least. What does, however, is the contempt that he feels for it. He excels at being an actor as much as he does at everything else, which means that he can fool the average person without barely investing any effort to hide his true feelings — but Shizuka is more attentive than most, and she can tell when someone is hiding something. Even when it's Dekisugi.

She senses it seeping quietly underneath his casual laughter, in the offhandedness of his voice as he mentions afterschool courses and music practice, stretching darkly in the silence between his sentences, in the seconds before his mouth upturns into a curved, joyous smile that shines bright enough to light up the whole room (but not really). Shizuka is always the first one to notice, without fail; sometimes — when she's looking away from Dekisugi's cautious dishonesty and at Nobita's brazen truthfulness — she wonders what that had to say about her.

.

.

"Dekisugi," she calls, once, looking up from the pages of her math homework.

His face is serious, determined, the sharp tip of his pencil hovering tensely above an empty spot, waiting to write down an answer — it's his favorite passive-aggressive stance, she realizes, the one he wears when he's focused on the task at hand, forbidding anyone from coming in, lest they break his concentration.

Shizuka can't help but feel intimidated, despite herself; briefly, she looks away from Dekisugi and at the soccer memorabilia hung neatly in his bedroom, decorating the plain white walls with bright team colors, giving an illusion of life inside his otherwise minimalistic room.

"Shizuka," he replies suddenly, out of the blue; she catches herself before she can manage to show a hint of surprise, reminding herself of all the etiquette lessons she's had hammered into her brain. "What is it?"

"Um, it's nothing, really," she stammers, playing her part of the flustered little girl. It's a habit of sorts; Dekisugi knows, it seems, judging from the look he has on his face, half-impatiently waiting for her to continue. He hides it well from the average person, though; she is impressed. "It's just — something seems to be troubling you, lately. You can tell me, if you want to. We're friends, aren't we?" It's either a question or a plea — equal parts honest and just as concerned.

Dekisugi laughs, then; a crisp, warm chime that would make any girl swoon if they didn't know any better. Shizuka does, but she is not completely immune to him and his charms; she doesn't bother to conceal the faint pink that threaten to tint her cheeks, like she would with anyone else — a true privilege, that.

"Thank you for your concern, Shizuka, but I'm fine. Really!" He beams brighter, as if trying to prove something. "I'm just trying to wrap my head around this question, right here…"

"Oh — I'm struggling to figure it out, too," Shizuka replies disappointedly, playing along with him instead of protesting: _no, that's not true, I know,_ or _I'm serious; you can tell me if there's something on your mind_, or, _tell me: why do you keep doing this to yourself?_ Especially not the last one: Dekisugi is smarter than she is, and he will surely catch the way she will phrase that question, and use it to his advantage. _Why, _Shizuka_, do _you _keep doing the same thing, then? _"Let's do it together, then," she continues.

"Yeah," he affirms, already opening the pages of his textbook, not missing a beat.

Shizuka catches the apologetic look hiding beneath his charming grin, returning it swiftly with one of her own — because they are honorable people (or at least they so believe), and consolation prizes are the least they can give for each other.

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><p><em>03. heartless—<em>

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><p>When asked, most people would describe her using flattering adjectives: shining, clever, cheerful, loving, <em>heartfelt<em> — the list goes on. Shizuka likes to delude herself into believing that she is any of those things, especially the last one, without really knowing the reason why. It doesn't really matter what people thinks, in the end, anyway.

She has a penchant for lying, she realizes, and in such subtle methods, too: the way she draws on as she thanks Takeshi at his family's grocery store, the slight softening of her eyes when she's visiting Suneo's house, the way she effortlessly leads Nobita on with a smile and a laugh — Dekisugi is as immune to her tricks as he is to nearly everything else she can throw at him, so Shizuka doesn't even try; the fact that he doesn't raise his voice in protest even once is a testament to his patience (or apathy; she can't really tell anymore when it's with him).

Her mother's advice keeps making its presence known, tripping her further and further in guilt. But Shizuka would always come home to an immaculate house with no real life in it — like stepping into a painting, the exterior pretty, the interior uncanny and frozen — with her friends' lively chattering still audible from behind the front door, the subject matter something lighthearted and unserious.

She'd question herself, then: would she really matter to them anymore once they'd moved on from her?

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><p><em>04. smother—<em>

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><p>Shizuka comes from an honorable family, which means that she mostly spends her time playing charades with her closest friends and making sure her façade doesn't fall off around her relatives. Still, living a life smothered in pretense doesn't mean she doesn't have the luxury of <em>some<em> breathing space; it's only the matter of spending them efficiently that troubles her.

She's gripping the change money tightly in her hand as she carries the bag of sweet potatoes in her other one, neatly concealed inside a nondescript brown packaging. If anyone asks, she'll just say it's just groceries — _nuh uh_, _no peeking! _Sorry, but I'm really in a hurry, and, well…

"—ow!"

… she bumps smack right into Nobita. It takes her a second or two to regain her bearings — good, so he's too busy tending to his hurt head to notice the flash of her underwear — and she gets up evenly, smoothing the creases and the dust in her skirt. The boy scrambles on his hands and feet, reaching for his tossed spectacles. _Great_, Shizuka grumbles inwardly, _of all the times…!_

"Oh! Nobita, are you alright?" she says instead, after picking up the (thankfully enclosed and unscathed) bag, feeling concerned for his well-being despite the fact that he nearly ruined the sweet potatoes that she could _definitely_ not afford a second time. They're friends, aren't they? She should at least try and care.

"N-No, I'm fine, Shizuka," Nobita replies quickly, ignoring the bruise starting to bloom at a patch on his knee. "I'm sorry for running into you."

"Ah, no — I should be the one to apologize. It did no harm to me," she says, her smile sheepish in a sort of practiced way. "Is your knee okay? It looks pretty bad."

"This?" He points at the bruise, still wincing despite the forcedly surefire tone of his voice. "It's nothing really; I'll be fine. Just go on your merry way, Shizuka."

"If you say so," she replies.

"Sorry I held you up." Nobita's voice is apologetic, something soft and meek that makes her want to say sorry, too.

"It's okay, Nobita." Shizuka smiles at him, taking refuge in the plain honesty written on his face. "Really."

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><p><em>05. cowboy—<em>

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><p>Nobita pinpoints the targets conclusively, instinctively, aiming with a sort of methodical precision and something gleaming in his expression. He's got his game face on, she notices, the look he has when he really, <em>really<em> means whatever it is he is doing — Shizuka wonders why he doesn't feel this way more often, before remembering Dekisugi and feeling ashamed for even contemplating the idea. His stance reminds her of a cowboy's, one of those Western movies that her father likes to watch during his off time, when it's late and he thinks that she's already asleep.

The metal cans all drop to the ground with loud clangs; his face reverts back into one of palpable obliviousness, the kind of face she's used to seeing in the morning, but she still manages to be startled at the stark contrast between them. Nobita gets up from his position, toy gun still in hand, grinning proudly.

"Did you see that, Shizuka? he says, excitedly, a finger pointed at the scattered cans. "I shot all of them in succession! Aren't I amazing?"

"Yeah," she replies absently, flicking her eyes back and forth. From the cans, then to Nobita and his unashamed passion. It reminds her of her violin, and she can't help but feel envious, for some reason (jealous of Nobita? No, _never_). "Yeah. You're great, Nobita," she continues, but she lets her eyes linger at the grass underneath them.

Nobita looks at her like he's just received a consolation prize. But only briefly; he settles for it happily in the end. Shizuka is no cowboy, but she at least knows how to shoot someone where it counts.

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><p><em>06. melody—<em>

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><p>Usually, it's only the sound of her practicing her music that cuts through the permeating silence of her house — soothing melodies of famous composers, stories told in the form of notes and sheets. Her parents look at her disapprovingly every single time she walks away from the piano to pick up her violin, but Shizuka doesn't really care.<p>

It's the evening, and her fingers are red all over from practice, like they always are. The sting lingers on even as she's climbing into bed, and it'll undoubtedly stay there for the rest of the night, but she doesn't mind that, either. Because for what it's worth, she feels that it's just nice to have something she's decent at — something to distract herself, an excuse.

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><p><em>07. bright lights—<em>

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><p>Shizuka dreams of the sharp glow of spotlights and the cheer of a faceless crowd, their beady puppet eyes focused on her. The violin in her hands is cool, heavy; her knees are shaking, expectantly, the movement well-concealed by the dark color of her stockings, and she raises a hand to play.<p>

Most of the time, she doesn't even notice she's dreaming until the audience starts booing — she'll find herself turned sideways on her futon, then, dazed and lightheaded in the quiet darkness of her own bedroom; it takes minutes for her to properly drift off to sleep again.

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><p><strong>AN: …**Yeah, I'm sorry. This is pretty bad alright. I didn't really know where I was going with this fic — writing this is just some kind of exercise to get me out of a painful block, haha.

Lately I've seen some people create well-written fics about _Doraemon_ of all things, so why don't I join in with my… pitiful attempt of one? Sorry. I'm on a nostalgia trip lately.

I've always kind of thought that Shizuka is a bit more malicious than she lets on, what with the way she acts around Nobita sometimes — ah, hell, I probably botched her up pretty badly in here anyway. I need to reread the manga some more to make sure.


End file.
